


caught in the headlights

by jeeno2



Series: Reylo One-Shots [10]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dominant Ben Solo, F/M, Humor, Workplace Sex, tiddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/pseuds/jeeno2
Summary: Rey Johnson forgets to wear a bra to work.Fortunately, nobody notices.(Except for Ben Solo.)
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Reylo One-Shots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1336408
Comments: 216
Kudos: 1891
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This nonsense started out as a [twitter fic](https://twitter.com/jeenonamit/status/1236329607709757440?s=20/). Because smut is hard to write 280 characters at a time I decided to expand the fic and move it here.

The first time Rey doesn’t wear a bra to work it’s an accident. 

It’s July fourteenth and the hottest day of the year. Rey’s apartment doesn’t have air conditioning, and from the moment she wakes up in the morning her place is absolutely sweltering and disgustingly humid. 

The idea of wearing clothes— _ any _ clothes—is repellent. 

After her morning shower Rey walks naked from her little bathroom into her bedroom, enjoying the slight breeze provided by the box fan in her window. She hastily pulls on some white cotton underwear from her top dresser drawer and a flowery sundress. 

She toes into her favorite pair of pink flip-flops.

And then, she hastily grabs her laptop, her briefcase, and her keys from the hook by the front door and makes her way with them to the parking garage.

Rey is already halfway to work when her seatbelt starts chafing uncomfortably against her chest and she realizes, with a flash of irritation, what she forgot to do before leaving the house this morning. 

“Oh, fuck,” she mutters, feeling like an idiot. She hits her fist against the steering wheel in frustration. “ _ Fuck _ .”

She glances at the dashboard clock and does some quick mental calculations to decide whether she has enough time to run back home and get dressed properly.

But she quickly realizes she does  _ not _ have enough time to run back home and get dressed properly. It’s already 8:47. She has a nine o’clock meeting with the Donovan team to discuss the Donovan file. And the Donovan file happens to be a total fucking mess. She’s supposed to present her findings—which are, specifically: that Accounting is made up of a bunch of idiots and the whole Donovan mess is their fault—to the entire team.

If she’s late for this meeting Poe will lose his mind. 

Rey groans, because there’s no two ways about it—she  _ definitely  _ has to go to the office, right now. And she has to do it without a bra.

She blows out a breath, trying to calm herself down. It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be okay. Her boobs are tiny, anyway. Rey has never once had to deal with anyone staring inappropriately at her chest when they should have been looking at her face. 

Which, honestly, is a good thing. She’s always been grateful for that. 

She’s doubly grateful for it right now.

As Rey pulls her car into the office garage she tells herself she’ll run out and get a box of bandaids on her lunch break. Just in case. 

* * *

Rey walks into the conference room a few minutes past nine—and a few minutes later than she was supposed to get there. She clutches her briefcase tightly to her chest on the off chance someone notices what she isn’t wearing.

Fortunately, no one notices. 

Unfortunately, however, they  _ have _ noticed she’s late. Everyone is already sitting at the conference room table, waiting for her. Their heads turn in unison in her direction when the door closes behind her.

_ It’s fine,  _ Rey tells herself, heart hammering hard against her ribcage as she quickly moves to the front of the room. She sets her briefcase down on the table and starts unzipping it to get at her presentation.  _ Everything is going to be fine _ .

“Oh, good,” Poe says, smarmy as always. He rubs his hands together in mock anticipation. Fucking Poe. “You’re here. Finally. We can get started.”

She ignores him.

As if on cue, Ben Solo—looking like a snack the way he always does in his immaculately tailored suit and expensive silk tie—noisily shoves back from the chair he’d been sitting in and strides to the opposite side of the room. He doesn’t look at Rey when he does it—he never looks at her when he does anything,  _ ever _ —but his derisive grunt when he sits back down again lets Rey know his actions have everything to do with her all the same.

_ He’s so fucking hot _ , Rey thinks, and not for the first time, as he lowers his massive form down into his new chair on the other side of the table. Not that Rey’d ever admit  _ that _ to anyone, of course. He’s got absolutely gorgeous hair for a man in his late thirties, long and wavy with just a smattering of grey at the temples and without even a hint of a receding hairline. His hair looks so soft that during more than one boring meeting Rey’s found herself wondering what it might feel like, sliding between her fingers. 

Ben Solo is also big as a linebacker, and he fills out all those expensive suits of his like a goddamn model, rather than the soulless businessman he is.

Rey’s stomach clenches unpleasantly, the way it always does whenever Ben Solo shoots her a stony glare or gives her the cold shoulder. Or is just generally in her presence in any way at all.

Yeah. Unfortunately, and much to her never-ending sorrow, Ben Solo is definitely, undeniably hot. 

It only makes him hating her that much harder to deal with

“So,” she says, trying to ignore how flustered she is. “I... want to start off this presentation by saying I can’t believe we even have to meet to discuss this. I spent all day yesterday going over the figures and I’m telling you—Accounting is full of shit.” 

Ben Solo is usually the first on their team to seize any opportunity to lash out at the morons in Accounting. But this time, he only sits quietly in his chair, saying nothing and looking at anything and everything but Rey. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and notices he’s literally red in the face at this point, staring a hole into the surface of the mahogany conference room table like it’s his sworn enemy. 

But it doesn’t matter. Ben Solo doesn’t matter. She prepared for this presentation, and she is going to  _ present _ it, Ben Solo and his irrational hatred of her be damned.

With a deliberate nod to Poe, Rey grits her teeth, pulls her folder out of her briefcase, and begins setting up PowerPoint for her next slide.

* * *

“All right, Rey,” Poe says, when she’s finished. He sighs—his trademark, forlorn, put-upon Poe Dameron sigh. What a drama queen. “You’ve convinced me. We’ll do things your way.”

Rey breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Poe agrees. He turns his attention back to his laptop computer and types in a few notes. “As much as I hate to piss off Accounting, your proposal makes a lot more sense than theirs.”

Rey nods, and starts collecting her things from the table. “I’ll email Donovan this afternoon and straighten everything out with them. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Poe picks up his Starbucks in one hand and his laptop in the other. “Copy me on that email, okay?”

“Sure,” Rey says.

“Great.” Poe stands up from the conference room table and makes his way to the door. 

The meeting over, Rey stands up and turns to follow him.

Ben Solo, however, does not stand up. No; Ben Solo is still sitting in his chair on the far side of the room, red-faced and unmoving. He is staring at the stack of papers in front of him with the kind of virulent hatred one typically reserves for lifelong enemies.

Rey frowns at him. “What are you doing? The meeting’s over.”

At the sound of her voice Ben literally flinches. Then he grits his teeth and glowers even harder at his reading material.

“I’m... preparing for a conference call,” he mutters. 

Rey’s eyebrows shoot up. “A conference call?”

“Yes,” he says. He looks up at her, very quickly, before turning an even deeper shade of red and looking back down at his notes. He swallows. “Leave, please.”

He’s lying about having a conference call, of course. Legend has it that the last time Ben Solo willingly spoke to anybody on the phone was sometime during the Obama administration.

Clearly, the real truth is he just can’t stand to be in the same room as her. God, he hates her  _ so much.  _

She only wishes she knew why.

“Fine,” she says, refusing to let herself feel hurt over this. He’s just a co-worker. Your co-workers don’t have to like you. Not even your hot co-workers. She picks up her stuff and holds it in front of her chest. “I was leaving anyway.”

Ben nods brusquely and closes his eyes. “Good.”

Rey spends the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on her email to Donovan, and trying not to think about how much Ben Solo’s constant rudeness actually kind of stings.

* * *

The next day dawns even hotter than the day before. This is shaping up to be the longest, most brutal heat wave Chicago has ever experienced. And Rey is sick of it. 

As she dresses that morning she thinks about how yesterday went  _ vis-a-vis _ the bra situation. In all honesty it hadn’t gone that badly. Yes, it had chafed a little at first, the stiff fabric of her sundress rubbing up against her nipples. But by the time she’d gotten home from work she’d grown mostly used to it. And in truth, it actually felt kind of nice for once not to be burdened with straps that dig into her shoulders and underwires.

If people had stared at her, or done weird double takes when she entered rooms, she wouldn’t be considering doing this again. But nobody noticed. Not even Poe. And Poe notices everything. Maybe her nipples are less impressive than she thought they were. Or maybe her colleagues are just especially unobservant. 

Either way, Rey sees no reason  _ not  _ to spend the rest of this stupid heat wave bra-free.

Her mind made up, Rey grabs a fitted white shirt from her dresser and pulls it over her head. It’s made of cotton, soft and cool against her skin. 

If she has to endure another hot day stuck inside the office she might as well be comfortable.

* * *

After what feels like ages, the door to the elevator that will take Rey up to her office on the sixty-ninth floor finally slides open.

She looks up at the elevator’s sole passenger—and her stomach crashes into her shoes.

If Ben Solo notices Rey standing there, lips parted in surprise, he doesn’t show it. If he notices anything at  _ all _ other than the tops of his black leather shoes—which he is determinedly staring at, like they hold answers to all of the questions in the universe—he doesn’t show that, either. 

It’s already nine-thirty in the morning. Ben never gets to the office this late. Rey finds herself wondering why he’s getting to work so late today, then tells herself it doesn’t matter. He smells good today—but then, he usually does. Masculine, like leather and musk. 

Not that that matters, either. 

As Rey steps inside the elevator, heart hammering in her ears and intentionally  _ not  _ looking at Ben Solo, she tries not to think about how small this fucking elevator is or how incredibly large  _ he  _ is.

She pushes the  _ up _ button with a shaking finger and the elevator’s doors slide closed.

“Your presentation yesterday was too short,” Ben mutters as the elevator begins its ascent.

Rey’s mouth falls open in surprise. Ben Solo never speaks directly to her. Not ever.

“I’m... sorry?” she stammers.

He grunts. “Your slides looked good. But the presentation lacked the depth Donovan needs.”

Ben Solo has a reputation for being prickly with everyone. But with her, he’s the whole goddamn cactus. It’s always been that way, from the moment she started working with this company nearly a year ago—when he literally ran away and hid in his office after meeting her.

Rey knows he’s insulting her right now—she’d have to be an  _ idiot _ not to know that—but all she can think about right now is the fact that he just said three mostly complete sentences in her presence. To _ her _ . 

After what feels like an hour the elevator finally reaches the sixty-ninth floor. Their floor. It chimes loudly, and the doors slide open.

Their conversation now over—if it can really even be _ called _ a conversation—Ben Solo storms past her, bumping her shoulder and jostling her in his rush to get away.

Rey walks out slowly, letting her eyes linger a beat too long on the perfect shape of his ass, his thick thighs, as he strides away from her.

She knows she shouldn’t stare at Ben Solo. This guy’s an asshole. He despises her. But goddamnit if those trousers of his don’t make her want to think about all the things she wants to do to him.

* * *

It’s past the time when Rey usually goes home for the night, and she is halfway through the edits she needs to make to the Donovan report when she hears footsteps approaching from behind her. 

A hand claps her firmly on the shoulder and she jumps.

“Hey, Rey,” Poe says. He slides his hand off her shoulder and walks around until he’s standing in the entrance to her cubicle. “I need a favor.”

Rey raises an eyebrow. She has a long, unfortunately history with Poe’s favors. Already she can tell this won’t be good. 

“A favor?” 

“Yeah,” Poe says. “Can you get me the Stan file from Solo’s office? I need it for tomorrow afternoon’s conference call.”

Rey blanches. She never goes into Solo’s office. Not ever. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”

“Because Solo hates me.”

“He hates everyone.”

Poe chuckles. “Not as much as he hates me. And I gotta go now anyway. I’m late for a date.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her, but Rey is not impressed.

“No,” she says. She turns in her chair, positioning her body towards her computer monitor and away from him.

“Rey,” Poe tries again, cajoling. “I really have to leave now. If you do me a favor and go get it from Solo, I’ll owe you one.” He gives her one of his patented Poe Dameron shit-eating grins. “Just put it on my office chair before you go home tonight. Okay?”

She glances at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“He… hates me too, you know,” she says.

Poe frowns, looking confused. “Who hates you?”

“Ben Solo.”

For a long moment Poe just stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. And then he laughs like a maniac, throwing his head back and clutching to the wall of her cubicle for support. 

Rey has absolutely no idea what’s come over her supervisor. But then again, Poe Dameron has always been eccentric.

“Thanks for getting the file for me, Johnson,” Poe says as he walks away from her, still laughing. “I’ll make it up to you.”

* * *

It’s nearly nine o’clock by the time Rey  finally finishes her work. 

If she never has to lay eyes on the Donovan file ever again it will be far too soon.

She powers down her computer and leans back in her chair. She yawns, and does a full body stretch, raising her hands up all the way over her head and making her back crack satisfyingly.

She twists her chair a little on her way back up again — and sees that Ben Solo’s office light is still on. 

Her eyes go wide. Because nine o’clock is pretty late to still be at the office. Even for him.

She bites her lip, hesitating.

She’d told Poe that she’d pick up the Stan report for him. Or at least — she didn’t definitely tell him she  _ wouldn’t _ pick it up for him. Rey wars with herself for a minute before finally deciding — yes. Yes, she’ll drop by Ben Solo’s office on her way to the elevator. She’ll ask him to give her his copy of the Stan report.

And then, once he gives it to her, she will ask him, once and for all, exactly what his problem is with her. This hostility between them has gone on long enough, and it’s making it harder and harder for her to focus on her work with each passing day. 

There’s no one else on the sixty-ninth floor right now. Just the two of them. Might as well put this alone time to good use and confront him.

But to her surprise, when she pokes her head inside Ben Solo’s office he isn’t there. Which is definitely strange. He’s pretty famously obsessive about not wasting electricity. It’s one of his many idiosyncrasies. Just like the Starbucks line is never short when you need it to be, Ben Solo  _ never  _ leaves his light on if he’s not in his office. It’s how the secretaries here know how to avoid him when making mail deliveries.

Ben’s desk —his entire office— is immaculate. Rey has never been inside his office before but the fact that it’s spotless doesn’t surprise her. The books on his shelves are arranged in perfect order by descending height. The only items on his desk are a computer monitor, a stress ball shaped like Baby Yoda, and the kind of spiral notebook the artists she knew back in college sometimes used as sketchpads.

Rey wouldn’t have pegged Ben as an artist. A repeat nasty YouTube commenter, sure; but an artist? Never.

But it must be true, because even from the doorway she can see he’s drawn the image of a woman in that notebook. 

Curiosity gets the better of her. She takes a quick look over her shoulder to make certain he isn’t coming up behind her, then steps inside his office, moving closer to his desk until she’s able to get a good look at what’s on the page.

And then… she gasps, her heart crashing hard against her ribcage.

She is looking at a beautifully-drawn, artistically-rendered pencil sketch... of her.

In a form-fitting shirt.

And no bra.

Rey stares at the picture, jaw slack and eyes wide. The way her shirt clings to her body in the picture leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her nipples are perky and stiff beneath her shirt —far perkier and stiffer than they are in reality,  _ ever _ — and have been drawn with so much careful attention to detail Rey wonders just how long it must have taken him to make this.

Rey is so stunned by what she’s looking at she doesn’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching from behind until they suddenly, abruptly stop, right behind her.

“Oh, fuck,” a familiar, deep voice intones, full of terror.

Rey whirls around, and comes face to face with Ben Solo.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a lifetime ago when I started this silly little twitter fic but according to my calendar it's been about a month. The passage of time has gone very funny in my neck of the woods. Regardless, I hope this update finds you all safe and healthy, wherever you might be. <3
> 
> When I initially posted this as a twitter fic I was gifted several amazing renditions of the picture Ben drew of Rey that she found on his desk that were added as comments throughout the fic. [Derpy Mommy](https://twitter.com/Derpy_mommy/status/1236487484319526913) drew one, as did [House of Finches](https://twitter.com/HouseOfFinches/status/1239728225724649476) and several others. Thank you to everyone who read this when it was on twitter and contributed pictures!

Rey has never seen Ben Solo like this. 

Normally, he is as neat and pressed as a brand new crisp twenty dollar bill. His suits are expensive and tailored. They fit his body like a fucking glove, without a single wrinkle to mar the display.

Now, though.

 _Now_ , Ben Solo looks like a total wreck. He’s rumpled all over--like he pulled out the first thing he happened to find at the bottom of his hamper this morning and tugged it on without even bothering to look in the mirror.

His dark eyes are wide, terrified. And his hair--usually coiffed to perfection every minute of every day--looks like he’s spent the entirety of the past hour anxiously tugging on it with his massive hands.

Maybe that’s exactly what he’s been doing. Either way, right now his hands are at his sides, clenching and unclenching into tight fists so spastically it gives the impression he has no control over his extremities.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, only to close it again, jaw snapping shut with a loud _click_.

“I... can explain,” he eventually says. His voice--normally calm, cool and collected even when everyone else in the boardroom is shouting at each another--sounds hoarse. Strained. 

“Good,” Rey says. “Please do.” Because really, he _owes_ her an explanation. He’s done nothing but shower her with derision from the moment she started working here, and now-- _now_ \--he’s apparently drawn a picture of her in the tight-fitting shirt she’s wearing today. Complete with pokey nipples.

And he clearly spent a lot of time on it, too. 

None of this makes any kind of sense.

Ben licks his lips and lets out a low breath.

“This… it isn’t what it looks like. I… fuck.” He closes his eyes and presses his fists into them. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

As Ben continues to stand there, looking like he wishes the floor would open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, Rey’s eyes trail down the front of his body before she can stop herself from doing it. It’s inappropriate, and she knows that. But old habits die hard. Honestly, it’s almost an occupational hazard when you work with someone who looks like Ben Solo.

When her eyes finally land on his crotch, her mouth drops open and her eyes nearly bulge out of her head.

“Ben,” she sputters.

Because now that she’s gotten a good look at him and is no longer distracted by his stammering attempts to explain himself she sees that Ben Solo’s very nice, very expensive suit trousers are kind of... drooping off his hips. His belt buckle is undone, along with the button and zipper to his pants, and his dress shirt--which probably costs as much as Rey spends on groceries in a month--is untucked in the back, hanging out of the back of his pants like he’s just stumbled drunk out of the men’s room at a frat party.

Rey’s head is spinning. Ben Solo--the man who hates her, the man who has _always_ hated her, who always comes to work every morning dressed like a goddamn male model--has drawn her with precise, exacting detail. And currently looks like a disheveled mess.

A _hot_ disheveled mess, mind. But a disheveled mess all the same.

At a complete loss for words, Rey says the first thing that pops into her mind.

“What did I ever do to you?”

She’d been going for curious if slightly demanding, but her tone comes out all wrong. Her words sound accusatory, argumentative to her own ears. At her question Ben stands up a little straighter. He blinks at her several times, looking surprised and not a little confused. 

He licks his lips, seeming to be at a loss for words himself. Rey tracks the movement of his tongue, trying hard not to imagine what it would feel like to lick those plush, kissable lips with _her_ tongue--and utterly failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding confused. He shakes his head a little. “What did you say?”

“You heard what I said.”

“I did,” he agrees. “I just didn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth.”

God, is he ever NOT condescending? 

“You hate me.” She says the words slowly--like she’s explaining a simple concept to a very young child. “But you drew a picture of me.”

 _In a tight shirt,_ she thinks, but doesn’t say. _Without a bra._

Ben takes a giant, involuntary step back.

“Hate you?” he repeats. His voice is louder and steadier than it had been before, and his eyes are wide as saucers, disbelieving, as they stare back at her. 

And then… and then, Ben Solo does something completely unexpected. Something Rey didn’t even think he was _capable_ of doing.

He starts to laugh. It’s a nice laugh--deep and sonorous, and it rumbles through his broad chest in a way Rey wishes she didn’t find so damn attractive. Either way, Rey is far too confused, and angry, by the fact that he is laughing at her right now to enjoy it.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

“Rey,” he says, incredulous. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.” He shakes his head, still laughing a little, eyes bright and earnest. “But I _am_ confused. How could you possibly think that I _hate_ you?”

It feels, suddenly, like the ground is starting to shift beneath Rey’s feet. She takes a small, reflexive step back, and then another, until her bottom bumps up against the edge of Ben’s big mahogany desk. 

She swallows. “I mean… don’t you?” she asks in a small voice. 

He takes a step closer to her. 

“No,” he says flatly. “Rey. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the minute you started working here.”

She blinks at him, still utterly confused. “But…” She wants him to explain himself, to explain all those angry looks and all the tense silences that have comprised the entirety of their interactions these past six months.

But then he takes another step closer to her, and then another. Suddenly, Rey realizes with an electrifying immediacy just how alone they are in here. 

One look at his face and Rey knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he feels it too.

His eyes darken. “The things I’ve thought about doing to you…”

He trails off without finishing his sentence. His voice has gone deep and husky, and the look he is giving her now gives Rey a courage she did not have when she walked into Ben’s office five minutes ago. He’s standing right in front of her, eyes tormented, wild, and suddenly--his actions towards her the past six months; his disheveled appearance now; the drawing, just to the right of indecent--all of it slides immediately and neatly into place like interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Suddenly, she can see all of his peculiar behavior towards her for exactly what it’s been.

Realization crashes over her like a thunderclap. It makes her heart race. It makes her thighs clench.

She swallows, and licks her lips. His eyes follow the movement of her tongue; further evidence supporting her new theory.

Summoning a bravery she never knew she possessed, Rey leans back a little against the edge of his desk and does her best to adopt a sultry tone. 

“What things have you thought about doing to me, exactly?” she asks, her voice so breathy she hardly recognizes it.

It’s the only encouragement he seems to need. “Things that would get me fired,” he rasps. He looks into her eyes, his gaze intense, as if searching for the answer to a difficult question. He must find what he’s looking for because after a long moment his eyes trail slowly, deliberately down the front of her body, in a mirror image of the once-over she’d given him a moment before. His hands are still nowhere near her--they’re still curled into fists at his sides--but it doesn’t matter; she can feel his gaze on her as acutely as any physical touch all the same.

His eyes come to an abrupt stop when they reach her chest. Her breasts. For the first time since leaving her apartment this morning Rey remembers she isn’t wearing a bra. Instinctively, she sticks out her chest a little, and thrills at the way Ben’s breath audibly catches. As if on cue her nipples grow suddenly sensitive beneath her shirt; she can feel them begin to harden, stiffen, under the intensity of Ben Solo’s gaze. 

“The past few days have been torture,” he continues. “Absolute _fucking_ torture.” His voice--impossibly deep to begin with--has gone even deeper, and grown rough around the edges. The rasp of it does something to her that she doesn’t have a name for but god, she hopes he never stops talking. He takes another step closer to her, all but boxing her in against the edge of his desk, until there’s hardly any space left between them at all. 

When there’s nowhere left for him to go he lifts his hands a little, hesitant--as if unsure what to do with them. He’s still staring at her tits, mouth hanging half-open and--god, Rey can’t stop staring at his hands. They are absolutely massive. The biggest hands Rey has ever seen. She shivers a little, and wonders if he’s thinking about putting those hands on her body. 

Right now she can’t think of anything she wants more. 

But he isn’t talking anymore and that won’t do at all.

“Why has it been torture?” she asks. She thinks she knows--thinks she can guess what he was doing in the bathroom when she came here a few minutes ago, thinks she knows why his pants are undone and he looks about five seconds away from bursting into flames. But she wants to hear him say it. She wants to hear this infuriating man, who has driven her crazy in more ways than one since she started working here, say it out loud. 

“Your tits,” he rasps. He lifts his hands again, and… and this time, he moves them until there’s less than an inch separating them from her breasts. He could easily palm both of them in one hand, she thinks feverishly, if he wanted to. The thought makes Rey shiver, and she starts rubbing her legs together, suddenly in desperate need of a little friction. “It was bad enough before, having to be around you every day when I couldn’t really _see_ your tits. But now…”

He puts his hands directly on her breasts and swipes his thumbs roughly across her sensitive nipples. It takes all of Rey’s willpower not to dissolve into a puddle at his feet

“But now,” he says again, moving in close enough to her to whisper the words directly into her ear. “Your body--your _tits_.” He trails off, shakes his head. “They’re all I can think about.”

She can feel his words against the shell of her ear, her neck, and she whimpers, writhing a little against his desk without even noticing.

But he notices. He chuckles a little; apparently he likes the effect this is having on her.

“Can I tell you more? Or should I stop?” He pauses. “You’d be well within your rights to report me for everything I’m doing right now.”

“Don’t stop.” The words slip out of her before she can rein them back in. But it’s fine; because she doesn’t _want_ him to stop. His hands are still on her breasts, caressing them, kneading them, and his mouth is _so close_ to the sweet, sensitive place where her neck meets her shoulder. All she wants in this moment is to drown in the deep cadence of his words, his voice, and in the feeling of his incredible hands, on her body. 

“No?”

She nods. “Tell me more. Please.”

“Okay,” he says, chuckling again. But the sound isn’t meant to be disarming or friendly. No; it’s predatory. He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her shoulder and she nearly _whines_ at the contact. “This morning, when I was getting my coffee in the break room, and I could see the way your nipples were tenting the tight fabric of your fucking t-shirt…” He trails off, and roughly grabs the hem of her shirt between thumb and forefinger. “Rey, I spent the _next hour_ imagining tearing this stupid thing off your body and fucking you up against the sink”

He moans, then. Long, and so loud it makes her ears ring.

Or maybe she’s the one who’s moaning.

“And then, this afternoon,” he continues, his big hands slipping beneath her shirt to rest on her bare stomach. His palms are so warm, and Rey _shudders_ as she fights with herself not to beg him to slide them up just a little bit higher. “This afternoon, after our meeting with Dameron, I was so turned on by the sight of you without a bra on I had to jerk off in the men’s room like a fucking teenager.”

He slides his hands up her body so slowly it feels like Rey is going to break into pieces with want. When at last he cups her breasts he swears under his breath. “Fuck, Rey.” He resumes his ministrations from earlier, only this time his movements are a little more confident, a little more aggressive. He pinches her nipples between thumb and forefinger and she keens his name as the sensation from her nipples rockets all the way down her spine.

Somehow--she doesn’t know exactly how--she finds her voice again. 

“What did you-- _ah--_ what did think about when you touched yourself, Ben?” It takes all the concentration and focus she has left in her to get out the words. But she wants-- _needs_ \--him to keep talking, needs him to keep filling her head with all these filthy, delicious words. Her cunt is aching right now, her body yearning to be filled. She doesn’t think she has ever been wetter. 

In response to her question, Ben removes his hands from underneath her shirt and tears it over her head in one fluid movement.

“This,” he grits out. He leans forward and latches on to one of her taut nipples with his plush, achingly soft mouth. 

Rey is so delirious, so awash in sensation, that has no idea how she ends up lying on her back on top of his desk. All she knows is that one minute she’s standing up, his hands and his lips pawing at her tits like he is a man starving and her body a meal he cannot wait to devour--and the next her minute ass is hanging off the edge of his desk, legs splayed awkwardly over the side. One of his big hands is roughly shoving her skirt up to her waist as the other one tears her underwear down her legs. His movements are so fast, so frenetic, he nearly rips the white cotton fabric in his haste to remove them.

“I’ve tried to stay away from you,” he says, his chest heaving, his breath coming hard and fast now. He pushes her legs apart with no finesse and moves to stand between them. His cock is absolutely straining against his boxers, and he leans forward, pressing his erection right up against her bare cunt. She moans again, writhing on top of his desk. Needing more.

“You’ve… you’ve tried to stay away?” she manages.

He nods. “Yes.” He leans forward again, grinding against her. She clutches at the edges of his desk, desperate for something, _anything_ , to help her cling to what remains of her sanity. 

She licks her lips. “Why have you tried to stay away?”

“From the day you showed up here, fresh out of graduate school in your pretty little suit, all I’ve been able to think about is getting you into my office and out of your clothes. Fucking you like you deserve to be fucked. Just like this.” 

It’s not an answer to her question but it hardly matters. His filthy words shoot all the way down her spine, liquifying her brain and turning her blood to fire in her veins. This is wrong, this is _so wrong_ , they _work_ together, he is technically her _superior_ \--but now he is purposefully shoving his pants down his massive thighs, and taking his cock out of his boxers, and--

Rey chokes on her breath when she sees it--hard as a rock, and nearly as big around as her wrist. He takes it in one of his massive hands and gives it a few rough pumps, hissing a little as a drop of clear precum leaks out of the slit at the top. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, even as he nudges her legs apart to make room for himself. The tip of his cock is mere inches away from her core. She wants him inside her. She _needs_ him to fill her up, completely. She writhes on top of the desk, aching for him, trying to move closer. But he lays a heavy arm across her stomach, stilling her movements.

He lowers himself down until his face is barely an inch away from hers.

“Tell me to stop, Rey,” he says more forcefully. He’s so close she can feel his words wafting warm and dangerous across her lips. “Tell me that you don’t want this. And I’ll leave you alone.”

“Ben--” she moans. She lunges forward and grabs on to the lapels of his shirt, pulling him even closer. “ _Please_.”

She doesn’t have to ask him twice. He fucks into her in one sharp movement, right to the hilt. He is _so big_ that he pushes all the air from her lungs, makes it impossible to take in enough oxygen when she tries, feebly, to start breathing again. There is nothing inside her anymore that isn’t him--and she _loves it_ , almost comes on the spot from the knowledge that he has taken control of this situation, and is fucking her the way exactly the way he wants to fuck her. The way she _needs_ him to fuck her. 

Wordlessly, Rey lifts her shaking legs and wraps them around his body. She digs her heels into her bare ass and pulls, needing him to go even deeper. 

“Please,” she begs. “I need more.”

He chuckles darkly. “Your wish is my command,” he says, already moving before he’s even finished his sentence. 

On the rare instances Rey’s let herself fantasize about Ben Solo it’s never played out like this. There’d been flowers, a nice dinner. Quiet, careful sex in his bedroom after whatever they’d been watching on Netflix had finished. She’s never brought herself off to daydreams of _this--_ of Ben Solo, his fingertips pressing hard into her hips as he fucks her, his stapler digging almost painfully into the small of her back as he fucks her blind on top of her desk. 

Her breasts are jiggling almost uncomfortably with every one of his sharp thrusts into her, and absently, she reaches up with an arm to support them a little and stop their movement.

“No,” he growls, grabbing her wrist. He pulls her arm away from her body and pins it to the top of his desk with his hand. She stares up at him, confused for a moment--until she sees the look in his eyes, hungry and predatory. And fixed firmly on her breasts. 

“I want to watch them bounce,” he breathes, speeding up his movements. “After having to look at you in that fucking shirt all day, I think I’ve earned it.”

He grabs her ass in both hands and lifts her a little, changing the angle of his thrusting _just so_ . The head of his cock brushes up against something inside her she hadn’t even known was there, and Rey _keens_ his name, eyes rolling back in her head as the coil of pleasure inside her winds tighter and tighter.

“Ben,” she pants, her breathing going hot and fast. Everything is suddenly too much and not nearly enough. There is nothing in this world right now other than Ben Solo, fucking into her like his life depends on it. Nothing exists outside of this room, outside of the filthy noises he is wrenching from her throat with every snap of his hips against hers.

“These tits,” he pants, leaning forward until his lips are hovering just above her right nipple. “Are _mine_ .” He takes one hardened little bud into his mouth and sucks, _hard_ , possessively swirling his tongue around it in a way that makes her whimper.

“Yes,” she says, the word torn from her throat--because she is incapable of saying anything else. “ _Yes_.”

She goes flying off the edge on his next hard thrust, her mouth open in a silent scream as her back arches off his desk. She has dissolved into nothing but pure sensation, held together by his mouth and his hands, rendered helpless and mindless from the waves of pleasure cresting inside her. She comes for what feels like entire minutes, her body clamping down hard around Ben’s cock, only distantly aware of him fucking her cunt with increased abandon, his thrusts growing sloppy and desperate as he chases his own release.

“Ben,” she murmurs, reaching for him. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and grimaces a half-second before his hips slam forward inside her one final time. She closes her eyes as she pulses inside her, thick and warm, wet and incredible. He stumbles a little as the pleasure pulls him under, collapsing forward until most of his weight is on top of her, pressing her pliant, spent body into the desk.

They lie together like that for a long moment, his head resting on her chest, his heartbeat thudding hard against her stomach. But he recovers quickly, remembering himself and pulling back before either of their breathing has fully returned to normal.

“Um,” he says, not meeting her eyes. “Thank you. That was… that was nice.” His cheeks are flushed and his hair--already a riotous mess even before this happened--is a complete and utter disaster. He glances around the room a bit, looking lost, until he sees where he’d chucked his pants and boxers a few moments ago. 

Only now does Rey realize that while he’d kept his and tie shirt on while they had sex, she is almost completely naked--save for her skirt, still rucked up around her waist. A strange little thrill goes through her at the realization.

“No need to thank me,” Rey says. “That was… incredible.” She hops up from his desk, wincing a little at the pleasant ache between her legs. She pulls her skirt back down and picks up her shirt from where he’d tossed it a moment ago. She pulls it over her head and pushes her arms through the sleeves, wondering what happened to her underwear. 

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Ben’s looking at her with an expression Rey’s certain she’s never seen on his face before--equal parts confusion and awe, each of them warring for dominance over his features. “I thought it was incredible, too.”

Rey opens her mouth to say something in response to that, then closes it again. Because in truth, she has absolutely no idea what to say to him. 

What _do_ you to say to the person you’ve spent the better part of six months thinking hated you after fucking them in their office?

Fortunately, he seems to have ideas.

“I don’t believe men have the right to tell women what they can and cannot wear,” he says. His tone is gentle, polite, all sign of the dominant lover he’d been just a few moments ago gone now. “But I think it might be easier--on me, anyway--going forward, if you, um…”

He trails off, his cheeks going the color of an overripe tomato.

“I can wear a bra to work from now on,” she says. “If that’s what you were going to say. Honestly, I only skipped the bra because I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

He snorts a laugh. “I can assure you that is not true.” He’s smiling now, a strange, lopsided grin that looks as out of place on his normally serious features as a dog in a swimming pool. It pulls a matching smile from her before she even realizes it’s happened. 

They stand there in awkward silence for another long moment, throwing furtive glances at each other before quickly looking away again. All the awkwardness between them that had vanished the moment he put his hands on her body comes roaring back now.

Ben seems not to know what to do with his hands now that they’re not on her body. He shoves them deep into the pockets of his slacks, jaw working as he looks like he’s trying to work out what to say next.

“I’d like it very much if I could take you out sometime, Rey.” A pause. “Or at least… have you over. To my place.”

The confession surprises her. But he looks like he means it. He’s holding her gaze, unwavering in his intensity. 

She swallows. “You would?”

A sharp nod.

Her heart skips a beat. “I mean… sure.” She fidgets with her earrings, just for a way to diffuse some of the nervous, awkward energy roiling in the pit of her stomach. “When were you thinking?”

“Soon,” Ben says immediately. He takes a small step closer to her. “Tomorrow, even. But…”

He lifts his hands, and reaches forward to gently, gently cup her breasts. Whereas before his touch had been rough, urgent, now it is warm, gentle. A promise for more, and soon.

Her mouth has gone suddenly bone dry. She licks her lips, waiting for him to finish the rest of his sentence. 

“But, what?” she prompts, when he doesn’t.

“Please wear a bra to work,” he murmurs quietly, right in her ear. “But when you come over, I would like it very much if you would leave it at home.” Another pause. “Please.”

Her heart beating a rapid staccato in her chest, she pulls back and looks at him.

She nods.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on twitter at [jeenonamit](https://twitter.com/jeenonamit/)!  
> Or on tumblr, also at [jeenonamit](https://jeenonamit.tumblr.com/).


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